


Close, When It Counts

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 10:36:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/797534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim. What he wants, whether he can have it or not. Definitely angsty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close, When It Counts

## Close, When It Counts

#### by T.Verano

Author's website: <http://home.earthlink.net/~t.verano>  
  
  
Written for Oxoniensis's Live Journal "Hugs, Cuddles and Kisses" challenge.  
This story is a sequel to: 

* * *

His hands are quiet just about as often as his mouth is. Which means not often at all. Before you got the inside track on those hands and that mouth, you said _not often enough._ More than once. 

You'll say it again, too. 

Some of the time you'll even mean it. 

Not about the times you walk into the loft together and he's all over you, hands and mouth. Jesus, his whole body. Before the door even closes. When the only reason you both make it all the way to the - fucking _hard,_ not that you care right then - floor is that there isn't anything horizontal that's closer. And afterwards your knees - at least _your_ knees - and other assorted body parts always start suggesting that keeping a mattress on the floor below the coat hooks would be the better part of valor. After all, Sandburg could find a way to bullshit around that little decorating quirk if unexpected company dropped by. 

Just another use for that mouth. 

Because you don't really want him quiet. Not even when he's making promises you can't afford to believe. 

And you never want that mouth quiet when he's using it _on_ you. Christ, no. Tongue and lips and teeth - and you're a jerk to get pissed off thinking about all the practice he's clearly had with his tongue and lips and teeth and the muscles in his throat, when what you're really pissed off about is the thought of him taking that mouth somewhere else. Anywhere else. Ever. 

Or his hands. But you don't want them quiet, either, not as long as it's you he's touching like he just can't help himself. Like he needs it. Needs _you._ Like he's drowning and you're solid ground. 

So even when you tell him to be quiet, you don't mean it. At least not as often as you say it. 

Works out pretty well, since he doesn't listen anyway. 

There are things you won't tell him. That you can't, because you've watched enough of Sandburg in action to know where this is going. But sometimes - like a curse, and even though you're smart enough, marginally, not to believe in it - you can see into a future you're still stupid enough to want. 

Like tonight. Both of you walking through the door, neither of you thinking of anything that makes you wish you had that mattress handy. His mouth and hands are as quiet as yours, for once. Empty. 

Not even any words. And you should care about that, you do care, but right now you walk out onto the balcony alone and shut him out. 

Not fair to him. He's still not used to seeing the sickening shit people do to other people. And you are, God help you. 

You were so close. Close enough, this time, to be just too goddamn late. Close enough to hear that sick sonofabitch's vitals dopplering out of reach. Unforgivably close. 

Close never fucking counts. 

And you can't tear your superior-for-shit eyes away from the accusing streets, the faces of the people out there in the cars, on the sidewalks, in the windows. All the people who aren't as safe as they think they are. Because you only got fucking _close,_ not - 

His arms wrap around you from behind. 

_Not fair._

He leans his body against your back, safe and solid. His hands drift across your chest; his voice drifts across your ears. You can taste his sorrow. Taste the comfort and the absolution he's offering. And Jesus, it's a mistake, but you give up another chunk of your heart. Because tonight, at least, he loves you. 

Whatever that means to him. 

Not the same thing it means to you. You know that, no matter what he says. This is Sandburg. 

And you know. You know you're fucked, because now _home_ wears two layers of flannel shirts and jeans with rips in the knees, wears silver in places nobody but you should ever be allowed to pay any attention to. And walks out of your bedroom every morning and you never know if it's - he's - coming back. Or how long he's staying, if he does come back. 

How long he's fucking _capable_ of staying. 

Tonight he's holding you. Loving you. And Christ, it's not enough. Not enough for tomorrow, or next week, next month, next year, when his hands and his mouth will be interested in somebody new. 

Close doesn't fucking count. 

Except tonight. 

Except tonight, when it does. 

* * *

End 

Close, When It Counts by T.Verano: t.verano@earthlink.net  
Author and story notes above.

Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


End file.
